Noir
by writteninhaste
Summary: ON HIATUS. AU. Cornelius Fillmore works as a P.I. with Wayne Liggett. What happens when he is drawn into a case of passion, greed and betrayal? I/F. WARNING: all characters a little / a lot OOC so as to fit with Noir genre.
1. Chapter 1

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A/N: This story is an amalgemation of Raymond Chandler's 'Philip Marlowe' novels and The Maltese Falcon. Characters will be OOC in order to fit within the world created by these stories. Phrases, dialogue and plot devices will have been borrowed from the above sources. This work was created for entertainment purposes and no copyright infringment was intended.

* * *

**Noir**

_Chapter 1: The Little Sister_

It was nine o'clock in the morning. The sun was shining bright and a soft barmy wind floated in the air. I was dressed in a sharp blue suit; my socks were pressed and I'd shined my shoes. The hat I wore to church on Sundays was perched on my head, tilted down over one eye. I looked every bit the Private Investigator I claimed to be. I was calling on one of the richest men in D.C.

The foyer of the Hartley residence was nearly three stories high, and covered in smooth, black marble. The main doors were solid mahogany wood and bore the family coat of arms: a shield with birds and a rose. The ceiling was painted with a scene depicting a man, and a women with long, conveniently placed hair. I wondered idly who'd stolen her clothes. There was a staircase to one side and two doors to the other. Straight ahead was a view of a room with a bar and low lights. The curtains were closed. I was still staring at the room with the alcohol when a sound distracted me.

The girl walking down the stairs was in her late teens, tall and willowy, with waves of long dark hair and an impish expression. She sauntered over to me - eyes wandering up and down, and a slow grin curling her lips. Then, she stopped three feet in front of me and bit her thumb, looking coy. She lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her cheeks before raising them again, like a theatre curtain. She laughed, a soft, breathy sort of sound - designed to wrap innocence in seduction and make men salivate. I was to become very familiar with that trick.

"You're cute," she said.

I nodded, "So I've been told."

She frowned at me as though I'd confused her and tilted her head to one side. Abruptly she spun away from me and fell backwards into my arms. I caught her and she instantly let me support her whole weight. She was a slight thing so I didn't mind all that much, but I objected on principle to being used as a human sofa. She giggled at me and folded her hands into my shirt.

"You're tall too."

I was saved from answering by the timely arrival of the butler. I raised her back to her feet and watched as she disappeared through a door I hadn't seen to my left. The butler watched me with an expressionless face.

"Who was that?" I asked, straightening my shirt and tie.

"Miss Karen Hartley, sir. Mr Hartley's youngest child." The butler replied. "It is my job to look after her."

I raised one eyebrow and glanced at the doorway through which the girl had disappeared. "My condolences."

* * *

The butler led me to a well-lit room in the far reaches of the house. Mr Hartley say there, gazing in one of two dark, leather armchairs. The wood was highly polished and the room smelt of brandy and smoke. A rich man's room, one for drinking and gambling. The walls were lined with pictures of stern-faced men in military dress, on horseback or with swords.

Mr Hartley himself was an old man, older than the age of his daughter would suggest. He had lost an arm at some point in his life and seemed proud of this fact. As I entered he gestured for me to sit in one of the leather-arm chairs, reaching into his pocket to offer me a cigar.

"Do you drink, sir?" he said. His voice was rasped in his throat, like cornhusks scraped by the wind.

"I do." I said, taking the cigar and the match that he offered. I struck the match off my fingernail. He seemed impressed with the trick.

"Good," was his reply, "I never trust a man who doesn't drink. It means he's worried about what he will do if he does; worried about what he will say. I don't trust men, who worry about their speech, Mr Fillmore. It means they either think too much or too little." He took a long drag of his cigar and blew a lungful of smoke in my direction. I let him. "So tell me, Mr Fillmore, what do you know about me?"

I settled back in the chair, rolling the cigar smoke around in my mouth before exhaling. "I know enough," I said. "You're rich, part of that inherited and part self-made. You've been married to three women and a divorced each time. As a young man you were known for your excess and your vices. You've two daughters. The elder married last year and was widowed soon after. The younger is still at home. Her name is Karen. She's both pretty and wild."

Hartley grunted and stood up, walking towards the windows. "I take it you've met my younger daughter then, sir?"

I followed him with eyes. "What makes you say that?" I asked.

He answered without turning around. "Only men who have met her, say her name with such a mixture of admiration and contempt."

I nodded, "Alright then, I've met her. I met her in the hallway when I got here. She complimented me on my looks and then tried to use me for a pillow whilst I was still standing up."

"She's just like her mother." Hartley said, reaching for a decanter and pouring two measures of liquid into a pair of glasses. He handed me one and sat down again. "However, Karen is not the reason I have called you here, Mr Fillmore. I've been robbed."

"Robbed?" I asked, viewing Mr Hartley with some amazement in my tone, "Why not go to the police? Why come to me?"

"I don't trust the police Mr Fillmore. Too many people to answer to, too many rules. I want this whole mess dealt with quickly, and I want it done well. So I came to you." He took a sip of his drink and a smoke of his cigar. "You see Mr Fillmore, the item that was taken from me is not rare or valuable, but it is something I want. It is a quirk of mine to collect things which other people have no use for."

"And this is one of those things?" I interrupted.

"It is." He said. "I have some idea who might have taken it, but I cannot be sure. Nevertheless, I want you to start looking there." A slight twitch had developed by his right eye.

"Okay," I said, "You got a name?"

"I do," he answered, "His name is Randall Julian. He used to be an artist, until he realised that he could make more money stealing art than he could producing it. I met him several years ago on a trip to Europe – Rome to be exact, and he's been a thorn in my side ever since. About ten months ago, I paid him the sum of three thousand dollars to an associate of Julian's to leave my daughter alone. It was Julian who had introduced them. Karen may be wild, but she would never had wracked up such gambling debts if it wasn't for him. I want you to find him, and find out if he has this piece."

"Who took care of the situation for you last time?" I asked.

"A man named James McAlistair. He used to handle that sort of thing for me."

"This sort of thing happen to you a lot?"

"When you're in my position sir this sort of thing happens _all_ the time." He gave me a small self-deprecating smirk.

"So what happened to McAlistair?" I questioned.

"He disappeared. I must say I was quite hurt by it. McAlistair had been with me for many years – the least he could have done was say goodbye."

I decided not to dwell on what was obviously a sore topic for the old man. Instead, I reconvened on the topic of the robbery. "So say I find Julian," I said. "How will I know what I see is the piece I'm looking for?"e HHe

"You will know, because Randall will take great pains to conceal this piece above all others." Hartley said. His voice was strained, as though someone had pulled the strings of his throat taught like a violin. Whatever this piece was, it must mean a lot to him.

"Very well." I said, putting my now empty glass down on a little table nearby, "What do you want me to do once I've found out where he is and if he has this 'piece' or not?"

Hartley sighed, and scowled. "If he doesn't have what was stolen from me, I want you to find out who does. And if he does have it, I want it back. Steal it if you have to, I wont ask questions. But I want what is mine returned to me. Understand Mr Fillmore?"

"Yes sir."

* * *

I arrived back at the office to see my partner, Wayne Liggett, chatting to the pretty little thing who mans our front desk and deals with the phones. Lucile her name is, and she's blonde - the type of blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stain glass window. Needless to say, Wayne was sweet on her.

Wayne looked up and saw me, his eyebrows coming together in a frown. With a nod and wink to Lucille he got up and followed me into our office. The window was grey and read 'Liggett and Fillmore Investigations' in bold, roman-style lettering. It looked out over the streets of D.C.

I used to like this town, a long time ago. Back when LA was still the 'Athens of America' and Hollywood was a bunch of frame houses on the inter-urban line. But times had changed, and now the streets were riddled with filth and bare of trees. Every morning in the paper, you read how some poor fool had been shot and robbed, for a measly one-dollar and change.

Liggett interrupted my musings by leaning himself against my desk and folding his arms in an imperious manner. He does that.

"So spill it Fillmore, what's got you looking for all the world like a man who's just found out that the devil made an offer for his soul?"

"I just got back from the Hartley residence."

"So I gathered. But what's that got to do with anything? Last I check, Hartley was immoral but he wasn't the devil."

I sat down in the chair I'd placed behind my desk. It was a nice chair, comfortable, with a hinge at the base of the structure that let me lean back and put my feet up on the desk. I lit a cigarette and ignored Wayne for the moment. He scowled and didn't take offence at the action. He does the same thing to me, most times. The companionably irritated silence was interrupted by Lucile. She knocked twice on the door as is her custom before stepping into the room and closing the door.

"There's a girl out here, Mr Fillmore. She's looking to speak to you specifically." Lucile's voice matches her hair colour: soft and with an accent that tells anyone who can hear, that she grew up in Tennessee.

"A client?" I asked, taking my feet off the desk as Wayne pushed himself to his feet.

"I guess so," Lucille said, shrugging slightly. A small smile graces her lips as she looks at me. "You'll want to see her anyway. She's a knock-out." Wayne laughed aloud at that, throwing me an amused look before moving towards the door.

"Show her in Lucile," he said.

I stopped him before he left the room. "You still working on that cheating husband over on Florida and Fourth?"

Liggett nodded, one hand on the door handle. "Yeah, I'll be busy all week. You keep out of trouble now." With that parting shot, he left the room, scooting past the girl just entering.

The woman standing in the doorway was twenty or so; small and delicately put together, but she looked durable. She wore a smart, green dress and it looked good on her – matched her eyes. Her hair was black and set in loose waves, curling at the nape of her neck. Her lips were full and red, stained darker than was natural by some form of paint. Her skin was the colour of cream and her eyes were clear. She looked elegant, calm and poised. She looked like four million dollars.

I stood to greet her as she moved further into the room and gestured to one of the chairs in front of my desk.

"Please, have a seat Miss –" I broke off, realising that I didn't yet know her name.

She supplied it for me. "Third. Ingrid Third." Her voice was confident and cultured, little to no accent, which made me think she'd been educated at a school that charged more than I earned in a year. She sat gracefully, crossing her legs high and folding her hands in her lap, on top of a slim, black purse. Even in the upright chair, she managed to recline giving the impression of a strong will and strong emotions – the dangerous, unpredictable type.

I settled back in my own chair and watched her. She never fidgeted, not once – normally people who come to my office are nervous.

"What can I do for you Miss Third." I asked.

She took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eye. Her green eyes met mine with a strength of character, I'd rarely seen in someone her age. "You spoke to my father earlier today." She said.

"I've spoken to a lot of people," I said, "how do I know which one's your father?"

Her lips curled in a ghost of a smile. She was the only person I'd ever met who could put such scorn into such a small movement. "My father is Mr Hartley, Mr Fillmore."

"Your Jonathon Hartley's eldest child?" It had been a response I wasn't expecting and it took me by surprise. I didn't like it. She nodded, the tilt of her head and the raising of a single eyebrow emphasising her be-damned-to-you attitude.

"So what can I do for you?" I asked, curious as to why Hartley's eldest child would be coming to my office, less than two hours after I visited her old man.

"I know dad's hired you for a job, Mr Fillmore. I wanted to see if you were up to it."

"Oh and why is that?"

Both eyebrows rose this time, and she fixed me with an imperious stare. "I was under the impression that cases such as these took quite a bit of work."

"Cases such as these?" I said, "So your father told you why he hired me did he?"

Something flashed behind her eyes, but it was quickly hidden behind a smiling mask. "Of course. What will your first step be."

"The same one it always is." I said. I didn't like the way she had changed the subject so soon after answering my question.

"There's a routine to these investigations is there?" She asked. Her voice was softly mocking, a light hint of laughter in the tone.

"Everything in life has a routine Miss Third." I said, "Now how about you tell me why you're really here."

She sat up straighter at that. She obviously disliked being challenged so openly. "My father is not as young as he used to be Mr Fillmore. This whole business has greatly upset him and I want it handled with the least amount of stress possible for him."

"A noble sentiment." I offered. She frowned then, as though sensing that I was mocking her. Abruptly she settled back into the chair, making a show of uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. My eyes followed of their own accord.

"My father likes you Mr Fillmore." she said, eyes now fixed at a point above my shoulder. "But then again he like James too." Her gaze met mine and she once again raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "I suppose you know who James is?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I know." Something in my tone must have irked her, because she snapped into an upright position almost at once.

"Stop playing games with me Mr Fillmore. Dad wants to find James doesn't he?" There was a fire in her eyes and light blush to her cheeks that made her seem even more appealing than usual.

"Why would your father want me to find Mr McAlistair?" I asked, hands itching to reach for a cigarette.

"Because it wasn't right, how James just left." She said, anger evident in her voice. "And I don't know why you're being so difficult about this Mr Fillmore. I must tell you that I don't like you're manners."

I scowled at that comment and decided I'd had enough. "And I'm not crazy about yours either. I didn't ask you to come here. I don't mind if you don't like my manners and I don't mind if you show me your legs – their nice legs and I'd like to know them better if I had the chance. But don't you go cross-examining me."

Her legs unfolded, heels hitting the floor with a sharp crack. In an instant she was on her feet looking down at me. "People do not talk to me that way." She said. Her anger was something sparkling and terrifying. I knew that if I stood, she'd be more than a foot shorter than me. It'd been like a robin trying to take on a crow. I laughed at her before I realised what I was doing. It was a cool, mocking laugh – one I hadn't intended at all, but that served its purpose.

She relaxed, slowly melting back into her original position. "He doesn't want you to look for James, does he?" she asked, a wry smile curling her lips.

"Doesn't he?" I asked.

She shook her head at me, and this time when she met my gaze there was a depth of sadness there. "Could you find James if Dad asked you to?"

I shrugged, finally giving into temptation and pulling a cigarette from the breast-pocket. I offered her one, but she waved it away. "It depends," I said, "when'd he go?"

It was her turn to shrug, "A little over three months ago. Dad and I had just gotten back from Europe and Karen was still at school. Everything was normal, and then, James just didn't come home one night. They found his car two days later by the river front."

"They?" I asked.

Her eyes widened, and I realised my mistake. "So Dad didn't tell you then?" she said, a note of smugness in her voice.

"He told me about McAlistair," I said, "but that isn't what he hire me for." I looked at her; at the way her lips were curled in a triumphant smile and how her entire manner was at ease. "Which is exactly what you wanted me to say wasn't it?"

She stood with the elegant grace of someone born to move in higher circles and sauntered past me to the door. "I'm sure I don't care what you say Mr Fillmore. Good-day."

With that she was gone, and I was left cursing the closed door.

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**A/N: **Thankyou for reading. Please review.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2: The Lady in the Lake_

It was late. Or early, depending on how you looked at it. I was sitting at my desk in my apartment, a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of Jack's finest within easy reach. Spread out before me was all the information I could find on one Randall Julian and his associates – namely a Mr Johnny Nevada. Nevada owned a ring of underground casinos near the docks. They disguised themselves as Cafes, but really they were a place where older men and younger women came to drink and lose their money.

It seemed as though Miss Karen was a regular at Nevada's casinos and Ingrid played there occasionally. Whether their father knew about it was unclear. Ingrid was smart and always left with more money then when she'd arrived. Karen on the other hand was careless. She bet money like it was matchsticks and didn't care if she lost. Only problem was, she never paid her debts. On a couple of occasions it seemed as though her sister had bailed her out, but more than once Nevada had sent notes to Hartley – demanding payment and threatening to do something about it, if he didn't get it.

I reached for the bottle, twisting the cap off one-handed before pouring myself another shot. A knock on the door interrupted my attempts at consuming the drink. I opened the door to reveal Joseph Anza – a detective with homicide. He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. His tie was crooked, his shirt displaced, and his pants had creases in them as though they'd been lying on the floor. There was lipstick on his collar.

He looked at me and shook his head. "Don't you ever go to bed Fillmore?" I stood aside and he walked in. He glanced over at my desk, eyebrows crawling skywards when he saw the J.D. and the shot glass beside it.

"So who is she this time?" he asked. Every time Joe found me drinking he assumed there was a woman involved. He was usually right.

"A married woman." I said, waving with a hand for him to take a seat in whatever chair he could find.

Anza laughed. A rasping, dry laugh that said he probably smoked more than was good for him but drank less than most. "You haven't changed." He told me.

"And I don't intend to." I replied. "Now why don't you quit pretending like this is a social call and tell me why you're here?"

He surveyed me for a long moment – like actors in a movie when they're waiting for something profound to happen. "You're working for Charles Hartley?" He asked eventually.

"I am." I said. I didn't like where this was heading. When a homicide detective turns up at your door, looking like he's given up much better company to be there a fellow tends to get suspicious.

"You done anything for them yet?"

I frowned. This is the way interrogations start – when the cops think you're good for something but they've got no way of proving it without a confession. "What sort of a question is that?" I demanded.

"It's a question." he answered. That statement told me both nothing, and everything I needed to know.

"Yeah, well I don't like it." I said. "Now how about you stop being cagey and tell me what's going on."

Anza looked at me, before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a cigarette. He lit it with one of those chrome lighters – the type you keep – taking a deep drag before he spoke to me.

"Okay Fillmore. About half an hour ago we pulled a car registered to the Hartley family out of the river. There's a body in there and –"

"McAlistair?" I interrupted.

"You mean that thug that Hartley used to keep around?" Anza asked, "The one who went missing a few months ago? Nah, it's not him. It's a girl. Why'd you think it was McAlistair?"

"No reason."

"Fillmore." he cautioned. I was pushing my luck and I knew it, but I was damned if I was going to give him more than he already had.

"Let it drop Joe." The words were kind, friendly even. My tone was anything but. I don't like the police, but I put up with Joe because an 'alright' kind of guy. We think alike and he's not adverse to putting holes in the rule book.

Joseph Anza was the type of man who was a man of honour in all things - by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it and certainly without saying it. He was the best man in his world and good enough for any world. I did not care much about his private life; he's neither a eunuch nor a satyr; I think he might seduce a duchess and I am quite sure he would not spoil a virgin. That was just the kind of man he was.

I reached out and downed the shot I'd left unfinished earlier. "I still don't see what all this has to do with me."

Anza sighed. "The D.A.'s office likes you for this. They wanted me to get you to come down, look and the body, see how you reacted."

"I know that game. A calm man's guilty and a nervous one's hiding something. You can't win either way. But if that's the case why tell me anything? The D.A. won't like that you ruined the surprise."

"You didn't do this." Anza stated.

"What makes you so sure?" I asked.

Anza looked at me. It was a long hard look, the kind that made hired thugs keel over at twenty feet. "You telling me I'm wrong?" he said.

I smiled. "No. I'm asking what makes you so sure."

Joe snorted and took another long drag of his cigarette. "You're out of the game Fillmore, besides this ain't your style. Even when you were wrecking havoc on the streets of D.C. your name never crossed Homicide's desk. That wasn't your thing."

I nodded, acknowledging the fact. "So," I said at last. "You want me to come look at the body."

Anza gave me one last stare and nodded. "Yeah."

* * *

The moon was bright – a dime suspended in a velvet clouds and sky. The roads were slick with rain, drops of water sparkling in the street like quicksilver. In the canal the moon played across the water, creating dapples and shifting lights that made it impossible to discern shapes from shadows.

The banks of the canal were steep and you could see where the car had ripped through the barrier. The itself car was relatively new – a black and grey New Yorker that Chrysler had released in '42 right after the completion of the Alaskan Highway – and sat, a squat black beetle, on the banks of the canal. In the front seat was a girl. She was short, blond, dressed in what had once been a crisp, clean uniform, and a bullet had removed half her face. The registration in the glove compartment told me that the car itself was registered to Mr Hartley's eldest daughter – but under the name of Hartley, not Third. Interesting.

The girl's name was still a mystery.

As I was about to return to the group, a flicker of white caught my eye. Leaning over, I eased a sodden envelope from its prison between the edge of the seat and the floor lining. Holding it up to the moonlight I could just make out a watermark in the top right hand corner: the Hartley family crest.

Tucking the envelope carefully into my breast pocket I climbed back out of the car, closing the door carefully behind me. The waterlogged nature of the car had done nothing to alleviate the stench of death and decay.

I strolled over to where Anza was standing next to a fat man in a tie. I recognised him as Det. Sgt. Vallejo – Anza's boss. The Sergeant looked me up and down and frowned. The gesture could have meant anything.

"For the record, I don't like P.I.'s messing around in my case." Apparently it meant he didn't like me.

I opened my mouth to retaliate when I was cut off by a voice as obnoxious as it was unwelcome. "And I, fail to see why – that being the case – you still proceeded to let a former criminal examine the evidence." The voice belonged to Assistant District Attorney Peabody.

Peabody was a thin, odious sort of man who bought expensive clothes and wore them poorly. His glasses were round and too big for his face and his mouth was a tight, thin line. There were two spots of colour sitting high on his cheeks and he was puffing and strutting like a peacock on parade.

Vallejo's attention instantly shifted from me to Peabody. "What are you doing here Peabody? Crime scenes aren't anything to do with the D.A.'s office." His voice had an edge that said once upon a time he had been polite to Peabody. But somewhere along the way the lawyer had pissed him off and Vallejo wasn't big in second chances. Peabody scowled at the Sergeant but made no reply. Eventually he stalked off to harass the uniforms and Vallejo turned his attention back to me. He looked me up and down at though Peabody's dislike of me was causing him to reassess his opinion of me. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

He nodded, once, and suddenly the cops around us were willing to share information. A blond kid, still in uniform but with a look that said he'd make a good detective, one day, stepped forward and gestured towards the wreck.

"The woman driving is, as of yet unidentified, but from her uniform and the fact that she was found driving a Hartley car, I'd say it's safe to bet she was a maid in their house." His eyes did a quick flick to the plain-clothes around him. Rookie, still looking for approval.

"Any evidence she was forced off the road or was she just looking for a new short cut to Virginia?" I asked. My eyes were drawn once again to the waterlogged car currently being scrutinised by over half a dozen uniforms. Crime scenes always seemed to accumulate more people than were needed – uniforms, plain clothes, the coroner and his people. Murders attracted even more. There was something fascinating about somebody else's death. Macabre but true.

Vallejo shrugged, "Rain's obscured most of the tire marks – we'll see what we can get from the car but –" he sighed and the rest of us followed suit. The only thing we could do was question the Hartley's – who may or may not tell us anything.

I nodded to Anza and turned my back on the scene. A few hours of sleep and then I was going to be asking my own questions.

* * *

I walked through the doors of Liggett and Fillmore investigations to see Lucille frowning at the telephone. Her pretty face was scrunched into a grimace as she jotted something down onto the notepad in front of her. She hung up with a curt farewell and marched in Wayne's office, leaving me staring at her back. I watched the door slam and rattle on its hinges and decided I didn't want to get involved.

Whistling a mindless tune, I sauntered through the doors to my own office, only to be pulled up short by the sight that greeted me. Perched on my desk sat Ingrid Third, a compact raised in front of her face, as she tried to paint the suitcases out from under her eyes. She saw me and snapped the compact shut, slipping in back into her purse as she artfully crossed her legs for my benefit.

I raised an eyebrow and settled myself against the now closed office door. I contemplated, and dispensed with, a few choice greetings before finally deciding on "I found your maid."

She blinked at me and if she hadn't been so well-bred I would have said she looked surprised. She eased herself down onto the floor, taking care to smooth her sleek black skirt as she did so.

I waited until she was firmly on two feet before adding, "I also found your car."

She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow at me and said nothing. I held her gaze and lifted the white envelope from the crime scene out of my breast pocket. The crinkled paper made a light scratching sound, testimony to the rigorous drying process I had subjected it to before coming here.

She looked at me with bored and empty eyes, but that quickly changed as I turned the envelope to face her. Though the ink was smudged beyond all recognition, it must have seemed familiar to her for her face melted into a mask of annoyance and anger.

"Where did you get that?" she hissed at me, stalking forward, "You had no right –"

"Would you rather the police have it?" I asked. She made a snatch for the paper but I lifted it out of her reach.

"I could always give it to the police." She smiled then, gleeful and bright, and I knew I had said the wrong thing.

She minced her way back to my desk, once again perching herself upon it, a look of triumphant delight curving her lips into a wicked grin. "You wont go the police Mr Fillmore." she told me, in a soft and condescending voice. "You've been hiding evidence – you stole that envelope from the crime scene – you'd be in the clink for sure, if you went to the police now."

I listened to her words and began to smile on my own. "I never said there was a crime scene." Her face fell. "I just said I'd found your maid and you car. They could have been anywhere." I paused. "Which means you must have known about your maid and how she ended up. The police might be interested in _that_ detail."

"You cannot prove a thing." She told me, but her face showed a hint of fear. There was a fine tremble in her arms and the hand that rested on the desk was white knuckled and shaking.

We stayed there, staring at each other until the ringing of my phone jarred us from our stand-off. Abruptly she jumped down off the desk and marched across the room in quick easy strides. I moved out of her way.

"Goodbye Mr Fillmore." she said and promptly disappeared out the door. I went to answer my phone.

**A/N:** Apologies if this chapter lacks in action or if there is a barrage of spelling and grammatical errors. Noir is actually a lot harder to write than I had first anticipated so updates will take a while. As always reviews and criticisms are appreciated. Thank you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: The Big Sleep**

I heard the door to the main office open and close. Lucille greeted Wayne with that million-dollar smile you can hear in her voice. I ignored it all and focused on the slip of cream coloured paper on my desk.

The paper was heavy, rich and smelled of money. It was embossed, on the right, with a bold 'K' below crossed swords. It was a sign I had seen somewhere before. On the paper was words, address to Ingrid Third, informing her of her sister's gambling debts. Enclosed was a written promise to pay said debts signed by Karen J Hartley. The debts themselves totaled five thousand dollars. The letter was unsigned.

I tapped my finger against the desk and thought about what this all meant. Karen Hartley was a poor gambler that much was clear, but why address this letter to her sister and not to her father. My sources told me that the Hartley sisters didn't run together – in fact they avoided each other at all costs. But the fact that these debts had been brought to Ingrid's attention suggested at least a sense of obligation. Frowning I fixed my stare of the embossed 'K' in the corner of the letter. My mind was telling me that I should know that sign, I'd seen it recently, I –

In a wave of inspiration I fished the morning's newspaper from the drawer, by passing Truman's smiling face and hurriedly scanning page after page.

Two-thirds of the way in, and I was starting to wonder if my wave of inspiration had been a phoney, when I spotted it. There in the centre of the page was a thick black 'K' poised between two crossed swords. Below it, beside a picture of the man himself, were the words: "D. G. Kleitman: rare and valuable antiquities".

* * *

It was raining again. The water pelted the roof of my car like bullets. I sat, Fedora pulled down low over my eyes and watched Kleitman's store with growing dislike. I would have liked it more, if the owner had actually appeared. Yawning, I pulled a cigarette from my case, and put it between my lips. Deciding not to light it I stuck it in the brim of my hat. For want of something else to do, I glared at Kleitman's store.

I had gone in, asking for Mr. Kleitman, only to be told by his secretary that Kleitman was out and I should return later. She was a severe looking redhead with sharp eyes hidden behind wire rims, and an unfortunate mole on her chin. She'd stared at me with such disdain that I'd been sure to be extra polite on my way out. That was three hours ago. I was just about to give up when a sleek, black, Buick century pulled up outside Kleitman's door.

The front door opened and a short, scrawny boy hopped out. He popped open an umbrella and stood, getting drenched, as he opened the door for those in the back seat. A man I recognised to be Kleitman got out and lent back in to help somebody else out. Kleitman was a fat man and for a while his bulk obscured the other person from view. He moved and I saw the outline of a woman against the rain. She began to move, and I realised that even after only a handful of meetings I would know the sway of those hips anywhere. Kleitman's guest was Ingrid Third.

Opening the car door, I made a break for the coffee-shop directly across from Kleitman's. A tall brunette was at the counter, flipping through the society pages of the newspaper. A bell tinkled as I oened the door, attracting the young woman's notice. With a smile and a wave she beckoned me up to the counter, folding the paper precisely and placing it behind the bar.

"What can I get you for, sweetheart?" she asked, already lifting a cup of the shelves behind her.

"A little information would be nice."

"Sure," she told me, "as long as you order coffee with it." I smiled and nodded, waiting until she'd poured a cup before continuing. "You know Kleitman's antiques store across the way?" The girl nodded. "What can you tell me about it?"

She regarded me shrewdly for a moment before saying. "Do you want to know about the store or Kleitman himself?"

"You'd make a good cop." I told her. "So what do you know about Kleitman?"

"German born – came here a few years ago. Speaks good English. Likes to mix with high society though he isn't. Claims to have a knowledge of antiquities and hasn't any. Dreadful womaniser. Word is he's got his sights set on George Hartley's eldest daughter – though good luck to him with that. Oh yes, and he's close friend's with a man named Johnny Nevada."

I raised my eyebrows, impressed. She poured more coffee.

* * *

I watched the store for another hour. Night fell, and the rain didn't cease. When Kleitman left, he left alone, with me tailing him.

I followed the car to a quiet suburban neighbourhood. The type that's lined with trees and where the houses are bigger than they ought to be. The car stopped in front of a big, solid, cool-looking house with burgundy brick walls, and a terracotta roof with a white stone trim, just as a distant rumble of thunder reverberated across the sky. The windows were covered with intricate wood shutters – each one trimmed with rococo style stonework. The house itself was dark.

Kleitman's pet pony got out and ushered Kleitman into the house. All was dark, and then light spilled for a moment from the open door before it shut.

Shrugging into a coat, I pulled the collar up to my neck, settled the hat on my head and ducked out into the rain. Making sure to keep to the shadows, I hurried up the street. I caught the name _Nevada_ on the letterbox.

Making my way to the next drive, I hurried over some stepping-stones set into the lawn, to push heavily on the buzzer. I huddled in the rain whilst a waited for someone to answer. Eventually a rather average looking blonde, with watery eyes and a tired expression answered the door.

"Yes?" he voice was soft, thin, and said more than the lines on her face that she'd had a tiring life.

"Cab service for a Mr Cox?" I told her.

She blinked those watery eyes at me and sucked her lower lip between her teeth. "We didn't order any cab." She said, closing the door slightly. "And there's no Coxs here."

I frowned at her, and pulled a conjured address from the corners of my mind. "This is 27 Vernade Place, isn't it?" I asked, inquiringly, tilting my hat back and peering down at her.

She seemed to a tremble a bit and shook her head minutely. "No, this is Vernade Street." She answered, shutting the door even more, so that only half her face was visible. "I think you should go now."

"Yes, yes" I said, "I'll do that." I nodded rapidly, already heading back down the drive. For all appearances a cab driver who'd wound up on the wrong street and was late for a fare. I glanced back once as I turned the corner but she was gone.

As I made my way back towards my car and its dry interior, a dull popping sound, I recognised to be gunfire, sounded from Nevada's house. The front door opened and Kleitman waddled as fast as he could down the front steps. The skinny little boy who seemed to be his driver raced out after him and hopped into the front seat of the Buick before ramming the car into reverse and tearing out of the quiet neighbourhood.

If this had been a movie lights would have been coming on all over the street with attentive neighbours standing at their front door to see who needed help. But this wasn't a movie, it was just a quiet suburban neighbourhood with a known gangster living on the street. No one was venturing out of doors.

I made my way up to the still open front door and pushed it fully open. The hallway was lit with lights too bright after the darkness of a rainy night. Cautiously, I slipped my gun from its resting place beneath my arm and edged down the hallway.

The hallway was long and narrow. The room beyond was large, dim, sunken and cool. It had the stifling, peaceful feel of a funeral home. And some of the smell. Across from me, perched against a mahogany desk was Ingrid Third. She had a eight-shot revolver aimed at my chest. A man lay dead at her feet.

"Is this what it looks like?" I asked.

She titled her head at me, and offered me a cute smile with those red lips of hers. "That depends on what it looks like." She told me.

"It looks like you shot a man. Kleitman saw and ran for it. Now it looks like you're going to shoot me."

With a rich, velvet laugh she lowered the gun, letting it rest casually in her lap. "I'm not going to shoot you Mr Fillmore."

"Did you shoot him?" I asked.

She simply smiled at me. "Were you following me today?" she asked mildly.

The question caught me unawares and it showed. "I only mention it because I saw you in your car outside Kleitman's store, just before you went to talk to that pretty girl who works in the coffee shop. Your licence plate is 693-231, the car's recently been washed and there's a small scratch above the front bumper on the left hand side."

I raised one eyebrow at her. "I don't think I'm the one doing the stalking." I commented.

The smile I received in response was smug. "Photographic memory."

I was forestalled from answering as the sound of the creak and swing of a back door reached our ears. I darted back for the front door, just as Ingrid yelled. "No."

I was half-worried she might shoot me in the back, but trusted she wouldn't. I could hear her heels swishing through the thick carpet in the room behind me, just as my own feet hit the ground outside. A dark figure was pelting round the side of the house. A single step brought me into their path.

A muffled 'oomph' signalled our impact. A frustrated growl signalled Ingrid's arrival. In the light from the house, I saw the figure I was holding, place her thumb in her mouth and look coy.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the long time it took me to update. Writing Noir is _hard_. As always reviews are greatly appreciated, and thank you for reading.**


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